The Guardian Angel
by highlander25
Summary: Heresy AU. What if Sanguinius saw the corruption of Horus, and assisted Magnus in saving his brother? A story of a timely intervention, and the consequences that follow.
1. Chapter 1

"Billions of Army infantry men. A million Astartes. Thousands of galaxy-roaming expiditioniary-fleets.

It can be easy, brothers, for one to forget the importance of an individual. After all, in a crusade this size, and among those numbers, the individual may seem insubstantial, insignifcant. But that is as wrong as the fanes and temples those individuals tear down. That is as wrong as the myriad xenos those individuals fight every day. Some would say the individual is useless, just a statistic even. That an individual can make no difference.

But then how do you explain us?"

Sanguinius the Angel, adressing his brothers.

Chapter 1

The Prosperan sun blazed down onto them like a dragon's wrath, making even the Baalite commanders feel uncomfortable. 101st Captain Lucan stood in his ceremonial battle-plate, his power sword in it's emerald scabbard, his gold embossed iconography glinting in the hot sun.

By the blood, if he didn't look like an Emperor's Children fop right now...

The thought brought a grin to his handsome face, as the comparison made him laugh within himself. So similar, yet so different...

That brought his thoughts to the Legionairres around him. Most were in two shades of red, one in the rich red of fresh blood, and the others in the deep crimson of an artist's palette. One so vibrant and emotic and natural: a result of the souls inner passion, and the other: shaped, formed, concocted... a creation of intelligence and a calculated eye.

But about 20 wore the gold of the Sanguinary Guard, and another wore the gold of the sanguine figure they guarded.

Sanguinius stood proud in the hot sun, brown hair flowing in the slight breeze, his golden armour, scuplted to show the individual muscles of his torso as gold plates and adorned with the sigils of his Legion and his past, gleaming in the gaze of the desert-world's star. His angelic face framed perfectly against the sunset, the white spotted hide of an exotic leonine creature forming a collar and mantle for him. And his famous wings, tucked behind his back, their white feathers rustling in the wind. To a poets eye, he could be made into the embodiment of grace, the aspect of perfectuon, to be seconded only by Fulgrim.

To Lucan's eyes however, the Primarch was anxious. And that made Lucan descend into the pits of worry. His primarch seemed to wipe away the emotion and regain his aloof demeanor instantly, as Magister Templi... EX-Magister Templi Ahriman strode towards the gathered Blood Angels, his crimson armour adorned with unknown sigils and hieroglyphs.

"Greetings, my lord Sanguinius, and welcome to Prospero." He said, gesturing about him with his hands.

The Angel gave a sincere smile. "It is indeed a welcome sight, Captain Ahriman." He did not lie. The capital of Tizca was one of the most beautiful places in the Imperium, and a testimony to human potential. A city of silver and gold, with eleven Great Pyramids accentuating the view.

"But, I am afraid I am not here to gaze at your pyramids and marvel at the architecture. I must see my brother as soon as possible."

Not everyone saw the moment of caution pass through Ahriman. Lucan certainly didn't. But Sanguinius did. And it multiplied his own worry tenfold. "My lord, I am afraid the Primarch is busy at the-"

"My brother WILL see me." Sanguinius's tone brooked no argument.

Ahriman missed a step, and an uncomfortable silence existed for the barest moment. However, a Primarch's word was second to the Emperor or Warmaster only.

"Very well, my lord. If you follow me I will take you to the Primarch. " Ahriman spoke with a thinly disguised veil of irritation at not being in control of the situation. Thousand Sons are liable to be like that.

Within minutes, they had arrived at the Crimson King's Great Pyramid. If the others were masrerpieces, this was the edifice of human perfection in all forms. The pyramid never ceases to amaze,with so many details and intricacies lathered onto it's glassy hide as to be a consistent interest.

It was also Magnus the Red's palace, and his tower of power. From that great vantage point, he was rumoured to peer into the warp, and strip away the veil between time and space.

Something that carried the penalty of death.

Sanguinius strode through the massive doorway, and into his brother's private suite. The room was immense, and was more of a gallery of knowledge and art than a living area. With a massive roof that seamed to engulf the equally massive bookshelves adding a certain infinite quality to the room's dimly lit atmosphere, he felt like he was walking through the halls of the universe itself, enveloped by every scrap of knowledge imaginable. He couldn't help but read through some of the names as he strode past the dusty tomes. Waylunda, Clockwork Baroness, Barbed Prince. He felt his breath catch at these names. _Terran originals of the 3rd and 2nd millenium... what the remembrancers would pay..._

He came to a stop in a large room that seemed to be a bedroom. There was a massive bed for the Crimson King, and all manner of trinkets and tomes and other objects scattered about the room. At the end of the room, some large plush chairs were gathered around a dying fireplace. He sighed heavily. Where was he...

A heavy book caught the Angel's eye, lying open on a glass spiraling table. The tome lay open on a page made of a sheet of bone that made Sanguinius' skin crawl. He began to read the first line: "Kharnate, lord of Blood and Dark God of War..." Sanguinius was about to close it violently, but spotted a line of great interest to him: "Kharnate has been entreated to instill bloodlust in his soldiers, or to remove the blood lust for a control over ones mind in combat..."

His mind briefly explored the avenue of opportunity, before his brain cordoned it off, shutting it away behind the gates of his iron will.

Suddenly, the dying fire roared into life and spread a warm glow over the room, as a deep voice spoke.

"Fascinating, is it not?"

Sanguinius snapped his head around to see his brother standing by the now roaring fire. A giant looked back.

"Good evening, brother." He said with a smile, and he prayed his regret did not enter his voice.

Unfortunately it did.

Lucan stood in the art gallery, with the Sanguinary Guard and Scarab Occult, along with the other commanders. He began to speak with Ahriman, along with Nassir, who was clad in his war plate.

"It's the Manè Losa, 2nd millenium." Ahriman spoke of the captivating painting of a woman that was ancient in its look. _For the Primarch's sake_, thought Lucan, _it's in a bloody stasis field. To be so old as to be destructible via air..._

It seemed almost unbelievable.

"It is said the artist spent spent a full year just on her lips."

" Apparently, he also designed the foundations for rotor-based mechanisms."

Lucan had a deep feeling of awe at being able to stand less than two metres away from such a relic...

Ahriman was currently deep in conversation over the artist with the 24th Captain. Lucan noticed Raldaron, the First Captain, fascinated by a black, stone statue of a man, deep in thought with his chin resting on a fist. He strode over to him, and joined him in observation. They stood for a moment, absorbed in the sculpture s detail, and the symbolism of it.

"The Thinker." Said Lucan.

Raldaron nodded. "A beautiful piece."

Lucan grinned. "Do you think there is a symbolism in it's placement here?"

Raldaron nodded. "It's the Thousand Sons. There is always a hidden meaning."

Lucan chuckled lightly. "They are a curious bunch, aren't they?"

Raldaron's mood seemed to darken.

"Aye, Lucan, they are. And mark my words, they will make problems for the Imperium. Mark my words."

Magnus, in his robes of crimson hue instead of ceremonial armour, had his hands behind his back, and a wide grin on his face. He seemed to radiate wisdom, with intelligence coming off of him like a powerful cologne. He was a huge individual, with him, Horus, Sanguinius, Dorn, Russ and Night Haunter being tallest of the Primarchs. And his red skin only increased his daunting appearance, giving him the look of a red tower, with one eye constantly shifting colour and depth, the other one closed forever, a dull scar marking what once was.

A sanguine smile split Sanguinius' angelic face, and he threw his arms wide and embraced his brother like all siblings would.

Poets often forget the literal brotherhood between the Primarchs, but it exists behind the public formalities they are forced to take part in. Behind that layer of public detachment, they are brothers all the same, prone to the affections and, quite often, the squabbles of brothers.

Magnus clasped his large red hands onto Sanguinius' shoulders, a kind smile across his face.

"It is good to see you again, brother."

Sanguinius smiled. " It's only been six months."

To a human, six months is an age, but to a Primarch, it is barely a blink of an eye.

Magnus nodded. "All the same, I could have used your counsel a number of times over the past months. They have been... difficult." Magnus seemed to sigh the last few words, and sat down at the glass table, and began to pour wine into an extravagant goblet that could most likely purchase a small army, which he handed to Sanguinius.

Sanguinius sipped the wine, and felt the warm feeling spread through his stomach.

Primarchs couldn't get drunk, but they did enjoy wine, and in some cases, a certain promethium-based mead.

"I myself was displeased with the verdict of Nikea. Psykers have so much potential..." Sanguinius shook his head as he trailed off, taking another sip of the wine, and pushing back the memories of the past.

They spoke of little things for a while, the expansion of Imperial borders, their brother Lorgar, who neither had seen for quite some time and were beginning to worry about, metaphysics and all other things that only five primarchs could speak of without distraction: them, Lorgar, and the Khan. And Horus, naturally. Perhaps Night Haunter. A cynical bastard he may be, but the man could speak for hours on philosophy and, surprisingly, art. _He's not the bloody handed psychopath everyone claims_, Sanguinius thinks.

_Well, not only._

After a while, Sanguinius decided it was time.

"Magnus," he said, his voice becoming serious in an instant, " surely you must know I didn't come here with a whole chapters of my sons to discuss the wonders of the universe with you."

Magnus smiled a not completely insincere smile. "Which begs the question: why did you come here with a thousand fully armoured and armed Legionairres?" His tone suddenly became as defensive as Dorn on a good day.

Sanguinius sighed, and pushed his hand through his brown hair. There was a pregnant pause, as if elusive words were gestating in the womb of awkwardness.

"I had a vision." A simpleton could have read the volumes of speech hibernating in that four-worded cave.

"I saw..."

He turned and looked to the fire, it's pyrotechnic fingers waving like grassy meadows in the wind.

"I saw Prospero die."

Sanguinius looked into his brother's eyes, and saw the indisguisable shock on his face.

"I saw lance fire shatter your pyramids, the flames reflected in shards of glass. I saw drop pods crack the streets. I saw atomic fire sweeping over the land. I saw soldiers of ice grey shatter your Legion. I saw the citizens of Prospero butchered in the streets, the ground running red to the tune of howls." He took a breath, and steeled himself for the next part.

"I saw Russ kill you, my brother, and I watched your Legion be wiped from the universe, just like the other-"

He did not finish his sentence, as Magnus was up in a flash, and his psychic attack caught the Angel unawares. A wall of telekine force knocked Sanguinius off his feet, and sent him through five shelves before crashing into a column, books raining down upon him, his wings folding around him like a feathery cocoon. He had just gotten up when Magnus appeared in front of him, his hands coated in flame, his eye the colour of rage.

" YOU LIE!" He roared, his voice taking on a tone of destructive intent.

Sanguinius did not understand it. Magnus was never quick to enrage, always clinical and calculated. _Ah_, Sanguinius thought, s_o he was provoked by me dictating something he predicts but refuses to accept. Just like Magnus..._

Sanguinius felt his jaw bone click into place, and wiped his mouth with the back of hand.

"I say no lies, brother! I have had this vision every night for two months, and it does not change! It does not flow or vary in any way! It remains the same! What I saw WILL come to pass! That is why I came here: to help you!" He pleaded, his tone becoming desperate. Magnus began to cool down, his enflamed fists dying out. His eye returned to it's previous blue hue. But his voice kept it's rage.

"Alright, Sanguinius. Speak then." He almost spat the words.

Sanguinius looked for any crack in his brother's facade, anything to give away the slightest hint of emotions other than rage. There were none.

He spoke in a kind voice, like a parent confronting a drug-addicted child.

"What are you planning, Magnus?"

And then, the cracks appeared, and the facade fell away.

The Crimson King took a deep breath, and spoke as a child telling a parent of an addiction.

"There's something you should know..." The Cyclopean swallowed, suddenly nervous, an expression he had almost never shown before.

" Something about Horus..."

And the Angel felt his blood go cold.

_A pyramid shatters, blown apart by blinding fire, the shards of glass raining down on the crimson armoured demi-gods below, their armour shattering in turn from axe blade and bolter round._

_Grey, lupine figures leap over their corpses, followed by gold armoured figures clutching shimmering spears. A wolf and a scholar battle on the steps of a grand pyramid, each blow resounding throughout the heavens. An angel battles a group of golden warriors, surrounded in a ring of gold. The slow, cacaphonic sound of laughter rises slowly..._

He cries out as he shoots bolt upright in bed, his pale skin and pitch-black hair glistening with sweat, his hearts racing and his black eyes wide. He looked around, his enhanced eyes penetrating the permanent darkness of the _Nightfall_. He let out a shuddering breath, and rested his eyes on his palms. He sat there for a while, determining his course of action.

Eventually, he threw off the pelt of a Nostraman lion he used as a blanket, donned a robe, and summoned First Captain Sevetar to his room.

Sevetar strode in to the room wearing training gear, the smell of the training cages coming off of him like light from a lamp.

He was a tall man, pale with pitch black irii, like all Nostramans, and seemed to radiate malice. He was famous and highly respected for being nothing less than the best killer in the legion, aside from Night Haunter himself.

"You summoned me, my lord?" He said in a dutifull voice. He was also one of the few Night Lords not hated by their father, since he was born in the days of Nostramo's fear instilled peace.

Unlike the majority of the legion's one hundred thousand marines, all those who were born during the Night Haunter's reign were assembled into the first three chapters of the legion, and formed the more "pure" Legionairres, all those who were instilled with the virtues of justice. However, they formed a minority.

Konrad Curze stood for a moment, his head swimming. He let out a long sigh, like a parent might when going to reprimand a child.

_So it is, with me always playing the enforcer, _he thought to himself, shaking his head cynically.

Sevetar pushed his fingers through his sweat-drenched hair, sweeping it out of his eyes.

"My lord?" He asked once more, not sure if this was going to be something serious, or just one of his father's casual chats. No-one would figure Curze to be sociable... but when everyone expects him to be the moribund, gloomy, brooding monster that everyone thinks he is, they don't often spend time talking.

Curze put on one of his claws, a click sound occuring as it's clips locked shut around his fist. A singular word had been meticulously painted on in flowing gothic print: _Mercy_.

As he fastened on the other razor sharp claw, Sevetar took in the opposing weapon's name: _Forgiveness._

"Tell Navigator Zun Lor to find the best route to Prospero." Curze spoke in a voice of razor edged silk, everything soft and fluid, yet with a razors edge to it, sharp enough to shave with. " Inform Magos Zeffon to prepare whatever it is that needs preparing for a warp jump."

Sevetar frowned. "What of Nostramo, my lord? We shluld make haste to get their before Dorn or Fulgrim."

The Night Lords spoke openly, and without shame of their escape from imprisonment. Did the defiance of orders mean they were renegades, as Dorn would call them? No.

Night Haunter just had a planet to kill at the time.

"What of it?" Curze said nonchalantly, as if he was speaking of rain on a day out.

Sevetar grinned without any humour in it.

"Well, I imagine you would wish to... conclude the bussiness with the planet quickly." He said, rather tactly.

Curze snorted in derision. He knew that Sevetar didn't approve of his decision, but was too good a son to outcry against him.

"Jago my son, I'll burn that measly speck of dirt when I come to it." He said with a smile Sevetar knew, or hoped, was false.

"But as for now..." he grinned, and this time Sevetar knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was a false one.

"Prospero awaits.

Sanguinius sat at a wooden desk in the estate Magnus kept for important visitors, illuminated bt the moonlight drifting through the glass roof. His head rested in his hands, his wings curling at his shoulders as if he was in a cocoon to protect himself from the truth. But that was impossible on any planet that had the presence of the Crimson King.

_It can't be_, he thought.

_It just can't be_!

Magnus had told him of Horus, and the turn of events that was soon to take place. Sanguinius had raged against Magnus, proclaiming him a liar.

But Magnus and shown him what he had seen through certain... means. And in his heart, Sanguinius knew Magnus was right. But his denial rose high, refusing to believe his brother. Although now he saw the truth in his words.

He felt as bleak as cloudy skies, and felt completely unsure of himself. What should he do? What could he do? Horus was a million times more than a million kilometres away, and Sanguinius felt lost. His brother, Horus, the Warmaster himself, could not turn traitor.

Could he?

As if in answer to his question, the door opened to reveal his brother Magnus, framed by the backs of two Sanguinary Guards, standing sentinel over the door.

Sanguinius didn't even notice Magnus enter, or if he did, he gave no notice. The Cyclopean walked into the room, standing just beyond the pale moonlight. He stood for a while, watching his pained brother.

After a while he spoke in words that were rather unlike Magnus.

"I'm sorry."

Sanguinius didn't move, didn't even acknowledge that his brother had spoken.

"I'm sorry that this happened. Im sorry for dropping this burden on you. I'm sorry that we are not as perfect as we are meant to be, as incorruptible as we should be."

Silence rained as a tyrant of the atmosphere in the room.

"But we are, aren't we?" The new voice was terrible to hear, broken and autonomous, like all the joy had been sucked out of it's speakers heart.

"We are corruptible. We are flawed. By the blood Magnus, just look at the-"

"Sanguinius..." Said Magnus, his voice bathed in the waters of warning.

The angel turned in his chair, his pained eyes resting on his brother.

"No amount of vows to father can keep it from memory, Cyclopean." Sanguinius's voice was suddenly as dark and cold as the void itself, and his cold use of Magnus's nickname made the sorceror flinch. However, he quickly re-established his objective.

" This time Sanguinius, no such vows need be said."

Sanguinius remained still.

"What did you say?"

Magnus tried to suppress a humourless smile. He could tell his brother was hooked.

"What if I told you I know of a... way to stop the Warmaster Horus from falling to corruption?"

Sanguinius stood to his full height with a purpose that made almost made Magnus hesitate.

Almost.

"Brother." The Angel said with terrifying calm. "No spell of your devising can shift the will of a Primarch. If Horus is lost to us, then nothing will sway his mind."

Magnus was stunned. This defeatist nature was without commonality in the IXth Legion.

He still continued, despite his shock.

"What if it was not HIS will?"

Sanguinius began to become threatening, his eyes darkening, and his fingers flexing into claws.

"Brother. Now. Is NOT. The time. For your crazed theories!" He snapped at Magnus.

Now Magnus was becoming agitated as well, his eye going crimson.

"They are not theories, damn it! I have seen countless cases of such things. In massive warp-powered Titans, in the cruel glow of the warp, in the-"

"Magnus!" The rage in Sanguinius's voice was a surprise, unusual for the aloof optimist.

"This is not the time for you to disgrace yourself further!"

Now it was Magnus's turn to be angry. Sanguinius felt the blow connect in a fraction of a second, dropping him down to one knee.

"Damn it, you feathered bastard, listen to me! I have no explanation for how Horus could turn from grace, or what could make him do it."

Sanguinius flexed his digits into a fist, and felt his bloodlust rise.

_Very well_, he thought. _If that's how it is..._

"All I know is how to save him."

Sanguinius's fist unclenched, and his hearts stopped for a moment.

He turned his head to his brother, his previous rage extinguished.

"How?" He asked, almost pleaded even.

Magnus drew in breath, but paused, trying to think of the words he needed.

"If there is a way, tell me!" Sanguinius was desperate.

Magnus offered his hand to his crouched brother, pulling him up to stand in the moonlight.

Magnus smiled, and then his grin wavered with what he said next.

"Nikea is overruled."

Sanguinius narrowed his eyes, feeling a strange feeling. To willingly go against the ruling of the Emperor...

"For it to work, for Horus's salvation: Nikea does not exist. It never did."

Sanguinius shook his head, but Magnus knew he would go along with it.

"Magnus... to go against The Emperor's edict..."

He trailed off at the end.

Magnus spoke in a low tone. "What would be worse: being dishonoured and punished? Or the chaos that will insue should Horus fall?"

Sanguinius nodded. "You're right, of course. What do you need of me brother?"

Magnus smiled, the smile one gives when everything goes according to plan.

"I need your mind, brother. And all it's destructive potential."

An entity watched the proceedings. Although "watched" is probably an incorrect word. More presisely: it was aware of them. It knew what happened without having to do anything.

It was it's nature to know.

And now, it found itself agitated, yet annother word too mortal to describe such a creature, as one skein of fate was severed from the web of possibility.

It began to glance in certain possibilties, registering the flaws and merits of each. And one it spotted would do very nicely indeed.

With it's minions at work, conniving and manipulating, it began to laugh. Or more accurately, it expressed it's glee, for that utturance of power was not laughter of any mortal form.

With a thousand eyes, The Changer watched over the Materium, and put things in order for it's plan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Ok, well here it is: Ch.2 .**

**Also, in the last chapter there was no paragraphs or line breaks, and I do apologize for it. **

**Read, comment, flame, do what you will.**

**Also, if i make any errors ( grammar, spelling, fluff whatever) do point it out.**

**And if you have any suggestions, send them forward. This is Fanfiction, after all. YOU are the fans.**

**So, ladies and gentlemen, for tonight's main event...**

Vergil brought the silver blade of his deactivated blade down in a vicious arc, pirouetting on his heel as he did so to bring his sword into a lethal horizontal swipe. The claw caught nought but air, and the blade was caught by a large, armoured fist. His opponent leaned in close during the weapon-lock, a smug smile on his face.  
"You're off balance, Vergi." He said, before pushing him back with a shove from his thankfully deacticvated power fist.  
"You are unfocused, as well." He said, pressing a button to his right, which made the black iron bars that shaped an Astartes training cage around them retract skywards with a hiss of hydraulics.  
101st Captain Vergil pushed a hand through his long, ebony hair, sweat glistening like minerals unearthed through the extracting process of close combat training, using the tools of training servitors & sparring cages.  
"Forgive me, brother. I am not myself recently."  
The other marine, the 103rd Captain Ekadus, removed the power fist from his hand, turning and placing it down on one of the arming tables in the training room.  
"What's troubling you?" He asked.  
Vergil paused for a moment, trying to find the words his answer required.  
"We have been on Prospero for two months now. No one save for the Sanguinary Guard or Raldaron has seen Lord Sanguinius or The Cyclopean in five weeks. The Sanguinary Guard seem more agitated by the day, more nervous. Look me in the eye and tell me you don't think something is going on."  
After a moment of stillness, Ekadus responded.  
"No brother, I don't think something is going on. I think something has already happened."  
"What do you mean?"  
He turned from his now dismantled, cable-strewn power fist, and looked to Vergil.  
"What I mean is that Raldaron has been repositioning fleet elements all over orbit."  
"The ships were blocking the-"  
"But he didn't have to reposition them into a Class-A defence cordon. But tell me brother, were the Spire Guard artillery battalions also blocking the trade ships?"  
"What do you mean?"  
Ekadus smiled, pleased that he was winning the discussion, displeased that he was right.  
"The field guns of all Army detachments have been moved into the desert. Army units have been placed on "extended training manoeuvres" along with them. The whole planet, albiet unwittingly, is preparing for attack."  
Vergil felt a cloud grow over him. "Who's the attacker?"  
Ekadus shook his head. "I don't know. But what could pose a threat that requires two legions to fortify to such an extent?"  
Vergil sniffed. "I think we both know the answer to that, Ekadus."

The Legiones Astartes were known for their proud, bright livery. They marched in their deep red, or purple rimmed with gold, or their midnight blue with jagged lighting, emblazoned with intricate emblems and campaign badges.  
But these ships were not so bright. These ships, hurtling through the void like arrows from a volley of archers, were coated in a pelt of cold grey, trimmed with silver & dirty bronze. These ships were not the supportive pillars of an empire, no. These ships were the smile cruel smile of the executioner's axe. And deep within the lead ship, a massive battleship spanning twenty thousand metres in length and with at least one weapon for every metre it possessed, the executioner stirred.  
Upon a throne made of black iron, and fashioned in the shape of a two headed wolf, sat war incarnate. Leman Russ, the Emperor's executioner, The Wolf King himself.  
And his mood was so cold, frostbite would lock it's hungry jaws into you upon incurrence of his ire.  
And frostbite took the form of the two immense, canine creatures at his feet.  
He sat toying with a necklace of eight massive lupine teeth on a leather cord, each one a small dagger of pristine white. On each one was a hand-etched rune-name: Rorrik, Ferri, Jekki, Hana, Asca, Tarrin, Larra & Reëra. He closed his eyes, cold and as grey as the frost of Fenris, as he revisited the memories of running across the icy glaciers, the snow under his bare feet, the wind scraping against his bearded face, the thrill of the hunt & the share of it's spoils amongst his brothers and his sisters. His wolf brothers, siblings of the pack rather than blood. Few others understood why he held onto these trinkets of his past, labelling them as nonsensical barbarism, or, as The Lion has said, silly superstition. But he did not have to explain himself to those who would not listen.  
He took hold of one of the teeth in his massive hands that made the five inch fang look preposterously small. He stared at the rune etched into it and closed his eyes, memories flooding back with the name.  
Asca.  
The light spreads into the cave, and they all spring from the carcass of a deer towards the golden flames, their lips parted in a feral show of natural weaponry. Humans, a war party, come to cut the life-threads of the pack. But the pack would cut many before their own were severed. In a storm of spear-rain, the humans take down two of the pack. Who, he did not know. After a minute of snapping jaws and swiping claws, he stood back to back with pack-mother, Asca, surrounded in human dead. They fought ferociously, and no blow the humans dealt could come close to harming him. Throwing a bloodied human across the cave, he saw one larger human, adorned in pelts and wearing trinkets made from the bright sun-metal, heft a bone-hafted spear, and release a war cry.  
*And he roared back at the human war-maker, and the humans between them parted in light of the challenge. As the spear made flight, so did Russ, bounding forwards in a mad charge. He expected the bite of the spear to follow, but it flew last his savage body, and Russ knew where it was going. He turned, trying to catch the spear mid-flight, desperately trying to stop the inevitable, and watched as it flew towards...  
He dropped the fang back into place amongst the others.  
Such things are of the past, he thought to himself, shaking his head, his long blonde hair flailing about him as he did so.  
He looked down at the wolves at his feet: one of fur as black as night, the other as white as the moon. They breathed deeply, so immersed in their dreams, these two, his last remaining brother and sister.  
Frekki, the calm one, always stalking, never unaware; and Gerri, the fierce one, always challenging, never at rest.  
As if one cue with these thoughts, Frekki pricked her ears, her eyes immediately open and alert, as a Legion serf approached Russ.  
Russ fixed him a blank stare that was a little less blank than intended.  
"Speak."  
"My Jarl, we will be at Prospero in ten minutes."  
Russ nodded. "Gratitude, kinsmen. As you were."  
The serf nodded, and strode back to his command console.  
Any other Legion might have had serfs cower before their commander, afraid or awestruck. Not the Fenrisians, however. They have to much fire in their spirits to allow themselves to be cowed by anything, not even a primarch, and this was something Russ encouraged. This isn't to say there was a lack of respect, for that he had in spades, but he believed in giving no quarter, and this extended into every facet of the Sixth Legion.  
Russ sighed, and stroked his scruffy beard.  
Soon, the warning klaxons began to chant their monotonous sermon, and with a nauseating lurch, the Vylka Fenryka, The Emperor's Space Wolves, translated out of the swirling miasma of the warp, and back into realspace, orbiting Prospero. As always, the Hrafnkl, A Gloriana-class flagship, translated out of warp-space ahead of the fleet. If an ambush awaited the Wolves, they would meet the fangs of Russ first, and ,more often than not, last.  
The Wolf King stood from his black throne, bringing himself up to his full, three meter height, his totems & amulets rattling off of his ice-grey war-plate.  
He strode to the polarised window with long strides, his hounds at his heels, and waited for his sons to translate to real space. First, came Tiw, the second Great Company, their battle-barge Heirakk exiting the warp in a torrent of unnatural colours and shades of light, warp-protective Geller Fields shimmering.  
Then came Fyf...Tra...Vir...Dek...Oht... company after company, ship after ship, until the assorted blossoms of warp energy that accompany a warp translation formed a garden of the Aether.  
Behind him, the massive twin blast doors leading to the command bridge opened with a hydraulical hiss, and in strode an armour clad giant, though dwarfed by Russ, decked with all manner of furs and runes, and strode behind Russ. The man, if he could be called such after the gene-changes wrought upon him, stood patiently.  
His name was Gunnar Gunnhilt, Jarl of Omn, the First Company. Called Lord Gunn by the Wolves, he was a massive individual in his ornate suit of Tartaros pattern Tactical Dreadnought Armour, and sported a jet black mane of hair, and a long beard that splintered off into six long braids. Long ago, when asked why he chose Gunnar to become Jarl of Omn, he responded by saying, "The bastard scares the remembrancers away." As a joke, obviously, but one could see why he would.  
After a while, Russ spoke.  
"Speak, Gunnar."  
Gunnar spoke in a harsh, clipped voice, bearing kinship to the soundd of a glacier crashing into a rocky shoar.  
"My Jarl, all companies report ready for action. We wait for the horn."  
The horn, yes... an old tradition of the tribes Russ grew up in, wherein the Jarl of a tribe would blow the War Horn, and announce the war-making. Once it was sounded, there could be no relent, no mercy. Victory or death, and in the Wolves case, almost inevitably the former.  
"Give my brother an hour to think, Gunn. If he does not come quietly, then it shall blow."  
Gunnar shifted uneasily. "Lord, the Warmaster commanded-"  
Russ turned in a heartbeat, his eyes wild.  
"I don't give a damn what the Warmaster commanded!" He roared in a voice of an exploding star, all activity in the command bridge ceasing.  
"I am the commander here, not Horus Lupercal! And I will NOT condemn one of the Legions to death without exhausting all other possible resources!"  
To his credit, Gunnar didn't flinch in the face of his Primarch's outburst. It was not the Fenris way.  
Russ composed himself before continuing.  
"I'm sorry, my son. I am stressed by these events. To many times has this occurred..."  
Gunnar thought of some way to change the subject. None of the VIth liked talking of what happened, all those years ago...  
Fortunately, yet unfortunately, distraction was provided when a senior sensorum officer said something that complicated matters entirely.  
"My Lords, sensors pick up multiple ships around the planet."  
Russ nodded. "It is to be expected."  
"No, Lord Russ, not Thousand Sons' ships-"  
His sentence was cut short by the window/view screen flickering with an incoming vox hail, static subsiding to reveal a tall, regal figure framed by white pinions.  
Russ snarled at the new development.  
"Sanguinius." He said, irritation enterring his voice.  
"Leman." The response came back, in it's usual kind tone.  
Russ stared at his brother with vehement anger at the complication at hand.  
"What are you doing here?" He snapped at the Angel.  
"Helping a brother." He said pointedly, his voice hardening instantly.  
Russ furrowed his brow. For the Blood Angels to help censure Magnus was... strange.  
"Well, brother, any help would be appre-"  
"Not you, Russ." Sanguinius said.  
Russ felt slightly stunned at that. Is it possible that Sanguinius would go against the edict of the Emperor? ,he thought.  
"What did you say?"  
Sanguinius's became offensive in a second.  
"I am here to offer assistance to brother Magnus, and to ask you to cease this madness! Magnus is our brother!"  
"That has never stopped you before!" Russ snapped.  
Sanguinius's eyes turned colder than glaciers.  
"Say that... one more time." He dared Russ.  
Russ cursed himself for his pettiness. That was uncalled for.  
"Sanguinius, it is the edict of the Allfather that Magnus be brought to justice for his crimes! He went against the edict!"  
"As did I." Sanguinius said in a low tone.  
Russ almost gasped.  
"Why?! What possessed you to do this? Why would you disobey father's edict?" Russ asked, incredulous.  
Sanguinius swallowed. "It had to be done. We had to-"  
"No! There is no excuse! No grey area! You turned your back on your vows to our father!"  
Sanguinius began to become more desperate.  
"Leman, dammit, listen to me!"  
"No!" Leman roared so loud the teeth of his pack rattled against his armour.  
His eyes closed, his hands curled into clawed fists, Leman Russ was as cold as the winds of the void.  
"Sanguinius, Lord of the Blood Angels-"  
"No..." The Angel said in disbelief, sorrow filling his words.  
" -Primarch of the IXth Legion, I name thee oathbreaker." Russ spoke through a clenched jaw, and he tasted blood where his long fangs pierced his lip.  
"As is my right as the Emperor's executioner, I name you renegade, along with that one eyed fool, Magnus. I will hunt you down, dear brother, I will kill you, and I leave your Legion as ash."  
"Russ, I-"  
The link cut in a burst of static as Russ spun on his heel and marched across the bridge.  
"All fleet elements to engage all targets immediately. Delta Three pattern planetary assault, Hrafnkl to lead the vanguard."  
The Space Wolves and their servants did not even pause for breath. They had been sent here to do a job, and they would do that job without hesitation. The time for questions would come later, but for now...  
In his mind, Russ had run through all calculations and assault options in a heartbeat. The Blood Angels and Thousand Sons outnumbered their six thousand marines with something close to 12000 marines. And now the scanners reveal a large fleet hours away from translating in system, which would be a portion of the other one hundred and nineteen thousand of Sanguinius's sons.  
Russ grimaced. This will be challenging, he thought.  
He unclipped a gleaming ivory object from his belt. It was a war horn, made of kraken bone and inlaid with silver.  
Russ looked over at Gunnar, who looked stunned. Who wouldn't be? Two more of the Emperor's sons had to die, two more Legions had to be extinguished.  
With a mirthless grin, Russ spoke to the command bridge with a look towards the beauty of the Prosperan sun and the stars of the void.  
"What a beautiful day to kill a Legion."  
And then a deep roar reverberated across the fleet, a breath of war, the howl of a chained beast straining for release, as the war-horn was sounded.  
And all at once, the stars became replaced by the flash of guns, and the rage of gods.

Three days later...  
Combat details: Orbital Stalemate, surface war imminent  
Casualties: 1 000 000 serfs, four hundred of the Legiones Astartes  
The two armies met outside the city of Tizca, in the vast deserts that reminded Vergil of home.  
It was a different type of desert, though. Were Baal Secundus was rocky, hard and wind-swept, Prospero was just endless kilometres of sand, the horizon obscured by the ever changing dunes.  
The only notable elements of the desert's scenery were the infinite ruins, thousands of half destroyed and half buried walls and even more rubble. The remnants of a time long past.  
The Blood Angels and Thousand Sons had an advantage in being able to fortify their position early, setting up rows upon rows of Medusa Siege Mortars, Earthshaker batteries and entire divisions of the Army's "Thudd" guns.  
But it was not easy to wait in the desert. The blistering cold of the desert night, while brisk to the Astartes, was wreaking havoc amongst the Army Regiments. So far, a company worth of men had suffered frostbite.  
And the vehicles were suffering as well. Sand was getting into the vehicles, causing problems with almost anything that could develop a problem.  
The Rapier squadrons and Land Speeders weren't fairing any better. The dust was getting into the grav-nullifiers, and no sooner was a Legionary engaging the engine that he found himself two hundreds metres in the air, spinning to his death.  
And the worst part, in Vergil's opinion, was the jump-packs. They couldn't function properly in the dust, with the sand getting into the promethium-tanks, and as such were deemed redundant and unnecessary for the mission. Meaning Vergil had to go bare of his Jump Pack.  
Damnable sand, he thought. It was the first andonly time the native Baalite would utter those two words.  
He looked out from his vantage point atop a ruined spire-like structure, taking the Prosperan desert, with it's white sun lowering towards the horizon, it's natural desert marred by kilometres of freshly-built bunkers, hundreds of Tarantula auto-turrets, and dozens of artillery pieces.  
His vox-link burst into life with a familiar voice.  
"Vergil?"  
"What is it, Ekadus?"  
"Meeting in the war room. Five minutes."  
"See you there." Vergil cut the link in a burst of static.  
He took a final look towards the horizon, towards the now setting sun.  
"What a wonderful world..." Vergil, said with a pang of regret.

Vergil's long stride took him through the front doors of the massive Leviathan mobile command bunker, where he was greeted by two servitors that he brushed away mid-stride, and continued through the massive vehicle's interior towards the war room. At the final set of doors, he was stopped by two gold-armoured Legionairres of the Sanguinary Guard. They both stood still as a mountain, there hands resting on the pommel of their massive two handed greatswords, which had their tips resting on the floor. Both were impassive as Vergil neared, but both underweant an almost invisible change in body-language, posture, head inclination, and a thousand other tricks used to affect your subconscious and make them seem more threatening.  
"Pass phrase." Said the one Guard, his voice so deadpan you'd think him an automaton.  
"Is that you, Dante?" Vergil asked with a smile, recognising his former Guard member ftom his days in it's vaunted ranks. Although his face was hidden behind his golden helm, his voice was notably smooth, uncommon among the veterans of the Sanguinary Guard.  
"Pass phrase." The Guard repeated, although Vergil could hear the smile enter his voice.  
"Seraph." Vergil answered, his own smile on his face  
The Guard slipped back into their previous state of ease. A Blood Angel would never commit treachery, but it was imperative to keep in the habit of your trade, especially when protecting one's own gene-father.  
The door opened as Vergil entered it's sensor, and Vergil walked into the room.  
It was large, and decked in all kinds of honour scroll or victory banner, many of which unndoubtedly marked it as Sanguinius' personal command Leviathan. And as uch, it enjoye many commodities others did not have, such as the pure diamantine walls, or the priceless art galleries.  
Vergil walked towards a large holo-table were his battle-brothers stood, absorbed in battle plans and tactical simulations.  
He strode behind Ekadus, who was entranced by a simulation of a Space Wolf assault into his Terminators and tanks.  
"Did I miss anything?" He asked causally.  
Ekadus shook his head, not breaking his eye-lock with the simulation, fixated on the semi-opaque Blood Angels in Cataphractii armour loosing off a torrent of shells towards a larger group of Space Wolves.  
"Just the usual: bickering, arguing, the lot."  
Vergil smiled a bit. Even with war at their door, his brothers would not drop their pride, all claiming to have the best stratagem or battle plan.  
"Any word from the primarch?" He asked, for he found his father's absence from the war room all to noticeable.  
As if on cue, the Lord of the IXth Legion strode through the doors behind him, and Vergil spun to see his primogenitor in his battle-plate: several layers of flexible armour, each golden plate of his breast plate crafted to look like one of his enhanced muscles. The pelt of an exotic leonine creatute of white fur was draped around his shoulders, as it ever was.  
And, of course, his wings. The soft, white angelic wings which had framed his equally angelic figure for nigh on two hundred years, each feather seeming as soft and welcoming as the bed of the richest noblemen. It was considered good luck to touch his wings, although to do so was very likely to invite the remorseless wrath of the Sanguinary Guard. Nevertheless, the Angel was known to give people a single one of his pristine feathers for acts of notable merit, though one usually had to be dead to fullfill the requirements for such an heroic action.  
Vergil, and everyone else in the room, went down on one knee, heads bowed in a respect bordering on reverance.  
Sanguinius The Angel just gave a humble smile of the utmost sincerity.  
"Rise, my sons."  
Every Blood Angel rose, every one of them humbled in his presence.  
Sanguinius took his position at the head of the table, of course. At his sides were Lord Commander Raldaron, captain of the 1st Company and lord of the first chapter, and the captain of the Fifth: Nassir Amit, the "Flesh Tearer".  
The two were almost complete opposites:  
Raldaron was flexible commander with great artistic talent ( for the Blood Angels measure themselves in so much more than their combat ability) and a forgiving nature. A captain who could relied upon to say the right thing.  
Amit, however, was none of these things: he was a ruthless and savage commander, who revelled in the roar of chainswords and the clash of steel. Also, he wad utterly pragmatic: he only maintained his armour to the point of functionality, not caring about the dirt and grime it accumulated after a battle. Also, it was considered unwise to offend or wrong him, as could be expected of a man with the moniker of Flesh Tearer.  
A captain who was respected and admired for, amongst many things, his ability to say the truth at the wrong times, as long as it was the truth.  
Assembled as well were heroes of the Legion: Assault Captain Furio; Centurion Nakir; the holo-form Venerable Aratti,a man respected so much he was given command of his Company even in death, and who was too massive to fit through the door; Vigilator Haraaz, the Legion's head Reconnaissance Operative... everyone of tactical worth or respect was in the room.  
The Angel gave an approving smile, and keyed in a code into the hololith.  
"Now then, my sons..." he said, as a shimmering representation of the desert came alive in front of them, "... let's plan a war."

Twelve hours later...

The two armies were facing each other, each and every soldier from either force coiled like a spring, hands kept close to their bolters, or resting on sword hilts.  
The tension was accompanied by silence. Not the tranquil, peaceful silence you get while walking in a forest, but the horrid, violent and all too loud silence there is before the first shot is fired, like the fanfare before the entry of a savage tyrant.  
The two armies. The red and the grey. The invader and the defender.  
The brothers.  
Suddenly, from out of the grey curtain that was the Space Wolves' battle-line, came a lone figure, flanked by two huge wolves. From the distance between them, no-one could make out the exact details of the figure without optic scopes, but there was no doubt as to who it was:  
Leman Russ, The Wolf King, the Emperor's Executioner.  
Although today his blade seemed far heavier than it ever was, and Russ knew why. He wish he didn't, in the hope that if the sword didn't carry the weight of regret, neither would the action.  
But now he strode the kilometre between the two forces, with it's weight on him.  
Maybe Sanguinius will give himself in. He thought  
The Emperor only ordered the death of Magnus, not Sangunius. Maybe -  
He cut of the thought before it progressed. He knew it was futile anyway. Sanguinius would never abandon his cause, if he believed in it. It was one of his best and worst features.  
Once he was about a quarter way there, he saw something rise up over the Blood Angel' s and Thousand Son's lines. A figure framed in white...  
Then the figure shot forward, speeding towards him at sub-sonic speeds. It seemed as though it was going to overshoot him, but at the last minute, the figure's wings unfurled and caught the air, bleeding his speed and bringing him descending to the sand-strewn ground, where he landed before Russ with a grace that might have put Fulgrim to shame. The dramatic landing kicked up a veritable sandstorm of red dust, which Sanguinius blew away with a single, overly dramsatic flap of his wings, allowing Russ to see his brother's features.  
He was achingly handsome. Not the raw, sharp and almost painfull beauty of Fulgrim, but a human, kind and noble beauty.  
Russ also took in that which only he would. Where any other might have noticed the finely wrought detail of his war-plate, or the flicker of his green eyes, or the flow of his wavy hair, Russ analysed the added weight on Sanguinius's left side caused by his holstered Perdition Pistol, the air friction caused by his wings, their combat use, the leg he favoured, and all the thousands of minute details he might need to kill him.  
"Good morning Russ." He said in the Fenrisian hearth-cant of Jurvik, his ever-present casual aloofness to the fore.  
The first time Sanguinius spoke in the casual language of Fenris to Russ had seen him speechless. He was the only primarch to have bothered learning what was reckoned to be the most complex language in the Imperium, due to the fact that Fenrisian had a different sub-language for every occasion.  
" Good morning Sanguinius." He replied in Baalish.  
Ssnguinius gave a sincere smile. He himself had been almost speechless when Russ had learnt the tongue of his own world.  
Normally they would've embraced as brothers, smiling and chatting of their Legions and selves.  
But today saw an all too clear distance between them.  
"Where is the warlock?" Russ half snarled.  
"We agreed I was the more diplomatic. That, and you two don't get along very well."  
Russ might have smiled at that on any other day.  
There was a slight pause as the two demi-gods gave thought to what words they were to say.  
"Sanguinius, will you answer one thing?"  
"Yes?"  
"Why?"  
Sanguinius felt like he should've had an answer for that at the ready. He paused for a moment, and the only sound was the desert wind's howling.  
"Because we had to. Because there was no other choice. Because it was worth the cost."  
"Worth the cost?!" Russ asked, incredulous.  
"Your actions have named yourself as an outlaw, as a traitor even! A death warrant has been put on your Legion and your homeworld, what could ever be worth that?!" He asked, throwing his arms in the air  
"Horus."  
The simple answer stunned Russ.  
"What?" Was all he could manage.  
"We did it to save Horus."  
"What do you mean, save him?"  
Sanguinius took a deep breath, and told his brother everything. His visions, Magnus's information, everything.  
For a long while, the lord of the VIth was silent.  
Then he laughed.  
It wasn't the kind of laugh you gave when realising the iorny in a massive plan, such as this.  
It was the laugh you gave because you realised how foolish you were.  
"You really expect me to believe that? You really expect me to believe that Horus was being manipulated by these "Dark Gods"? I expected this scheming and lying from that damned witchbreed cowering behind your army! But not from you Sanguinius."  
Sanguinius said nothing, sitting in the cold silence of the desert night, waiting for the inevitable.  
Russ took a deep breath, and then said the most difficult words he ever had to say.  
"Sanguinius, take heed. I am going to destroy your Legion, I am going to burn the world you call home, and I will kill you. But before I do, I will give you one last chance for salvation. Please brother, in the name of our father, cease this madness!"  
Sanguinius had become more agressive, and Russ saw it in the slight twitch of his fingers, and the sound of his tongue running over his teeth, a sound imperceptible to anyone not imbued with his lupine senses.  
"Leman it is you who is being mad! Can't you hear what I'm saying? If you don't believe me then ask the astropaths to contact Horus! He will tell you-"  
Russ interrupted with what might have been thr last words Sanguinius wanted to hear.  
"It was the Warmaster who ordered me to kill Magnus."  
Sanguinius had aquired a reputation for his aloof coolness and calm nature, always seeming calm, never shocked, stunned or even slightly confused.  
But now his jaw hung low, and his eyes seemed to loose their vigor.  
"No, no that can't be-"  
"It was he who ordered the Thousand Sons' death warrant! He ordered me and my legion here!"  
Sanguinius took by Russ by the shoulders, all but shaking them off.  
"Russ, brother, you must believe me-"  
"I don't!" He roared, shoving the lighter primarch off with a strong push.  
"How can I?"  
He let the question hang in the air for a moment, and then turned to walk away from his brother, back to his own sons.  
Sanguinius opened his mouth to call to him, but was silenced by a psychic whisper in his mind.  
*Leave him, brother*  
Sanguinius half-heartedly tried to shrug off Magnus's psychic presence.  
*You did all you could.*  
Sanguinius shot back his own psychic message via his own abilities, whch Magnus had helped him hone in the recent months.  
*It still wasn't enough...*  
*You obviously didn't read Russ's aura during your conversation.*  
*Should I have?*  
*He doesn't want this, Sanguinius. He wants none of this. Inside his mind, his duty to father is battling against his pain."  
Sanguinius looked to the Space Wolf ranks, and noticed for the first time how unusually sombre they were. Past experiences with his brother's legion had ingrained in his mind the memories of the Fenrisian legionaries roaring taunts and slander into the enemy, or chaanting some of their native war songs.  
But here, they were completely still. Not one moved, not one so much as inclined his head in any direction but forwards. Their weapons were even lowered, as if they expected, or hoped, that they would see no thread-cutting that day.  
They were utterly remoresfull, and not a single one of them, from their blood-crazed "bearsarks" to the Jarls of their Great Companies, wanted to be there.  
Sanguinius tore himself away from the sight, and began to walk back to the wall of red that was his legion and that of his brother.  
He would've flown, but his wings felt as heavy as his heart.

Russ finally reached his legion's trenchline , dropping his large armoured bulk down into the trenches, Frekki and Gerri following suite. He looked up too see his sons looking expectantly at him, hoping, praying...  
But their's were prayers he could not answer, hopes he could not fulfill.

He walked through the trenches's command slit, trying not to meat the lingeriing gazes of his sons, unwilling to see whatever emotions glimmered in their eyes, and headed towards the command bunker in the trench network's centre. There, his commanders were waiting for him, though this time he could not avoid their eyes.  
"What are our orders, my lord?" Asked Gunnar, although he already knew the answer.  
Russ strode over to the bunker's vision slit, and stared through that single viewpoint, bringing his gaze to the defensive lines of the Blood Angels and Thousand Sons. There, his gaze lingered, unwilling to keep looking, but unable to look away.  
Eventually, he turned to his war council, a sad smile on his lips.  
" Bring them the Emperor's Justice, my sons." He said, turning his gaze back to his enemy's defenses.  
His next words were said so low not even his son's genhanced senses could hear him  
" And may they forgive us when we do."

Just outside Prospero...

A dark sliver of midnight blue slipped through the immaterium like a sharp knife through flesh, wreathed in darkness and carrying the smell of death. Her name was Nightfall, and she was the silent killer of a thousand worlds

Deep within it, in it's command bridge wreathed in perpetual night, sat a figure.

The figure sat half asleep at a chair of sharp metal that would have shone in thee light of a command bridge, but the stars' reflections and the dim light of cogitators were giving the only light in the room.

A small voice came from the sensorum pit to his left.

"Master, we are just outside the Prospero system, all stealth systems engaged."

The figure did not respond, but just stayed seated, it's hands clutching the ends of it's chair's arms, it's eyes closed and head slightly bowed.

The mortal made a slight coughing sound. "Master-"

The figure was now behind him. There was no blur of speed, for he moved too fast for mortal perception to register the motion. In fact, the sensorum officer didn't even realize he had moved until the soft voice spoke, directly behind his left ear.

" I know."

The officer didn't move, didn't even breathe. He just stood still, the contents of his bladder emtying onto the floor.

The figure just laughed at his fear, and then moved again. He appeared at the viewport, and stared out into space.

" Master Jo Queall..." He said in a sing-song manner, trying to elicit a fearful response from the stoic Techpriest.

" Yes, Lord Curze?" He said, his mechanical larynx bringing out his voice as a mechanical rasp.

Curze made a tutting sound.

"You know that is not my name..."

Something whirred as the Magos pulled up his files on Curze.

"Compliance. Edit previous statement: Yes, Lord Night Haunter?"

Night Haunter chuckled. "Much better. Tell the enginarium to plot a curse so that we arrive during Prospero's night-cycle. Full stealth activee."

More whirring. " Compliance."

Night Haunter respected the Magos. It was rare that he could find someone he could not scare. Or rather, as he put it, he could not scare yet.

He moved again, and re-appeared at his throne, where Sevetar was waiting.

"Jago?"

"Yes, my lord?" He asked, still smiling at how he scared the sensorum officer.

"Ready the legion."

Sevetar nodded. " I've never fought the Wolves before."

Curze dropped his smile. "Let's pray you never do."

Jago was slightly stunned at that never before seen show of sentiment, but when he looked back at Curze to try and spot that glimmer of pain in his eyes he had moments ago, the Night Haunter had become vicous and cold again.

" However, it does seem that my brothers need to be taught a lesson or two."

There was a lurch as the Nightfall began to move, and behind it, came the one hundred thousand killers of the Night Lords legion.


End file.
